


Data Entry

by Alyaludi



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bets, Gen, Gossip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyaludi/pseuds/Alyaludi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Councilor refuses to intervene because he says it’s good for morale.</p><p>The Director refuses to intervene because he enjoys Wash’s suffering more than he hates morale.</p><p>CT refuses to intervene because it entertains her.</p><p>Wash just wants everyone to wear fucking shirts. Is that too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Data Entry

“Whose do you think that is?” Whispers one crewmember to another. “By the shoulders, that’s definitely Agent South Dakota’s.”

“No way! That’s totally Carolina’s color, it has to--”

“Shh!” A crewmember working in an access hatch hisses. All three fall silent as Agent Washington passes, giving them a glare as he jogged to the training room. It’s impressive; he can glare through his helmet.

Crewmember One, Radha, sighs after him. “Someday he’ll give in to the inevitable,” she says fondly. “I can’t wait to see _his_ shoulders.”

“I just admire his persistence,” says the second crewmember, Tom. “I heard him reminding _South_ to put a shirt on once.”

“Aww, what’d she do to him?” Asks Radha.

“It’s Washington, he only got a bruise. I checked with a buddy in medical.”

“I just hope once Washington caves we can have shirtless Maine back.” Comments Kris from the access hatch.

“But the solidarity thing is so sweet!” Radha protests.

“Sweet? Maine?” Tom laughs. “I think he just doesn’t want to deal with Washington’s bitching.”

“Then the helmet?”

“Audio filters. I would.”

“Ugh, you have no romance in your soul.” Radha smiles to herself. “Clearly Washington’s shy and Agent Maine just wants to make him feel less…”

“Weird?” Tom supplies.

“Different.”

“You’re a sap,” Kris volunteers.

“So?”

“ _And_ I know you’re seattle69 on the internal fanfic server.”

“Do you hate me?” Radha hisses. “Don’t say that where Agent Connecticut can hear you!”

“Mmm, too late, but I did already know. Wash can totally bend like that, by the way.” All three crewmembers jump, Kris cursing as they bang their head on the top of the hatch. “Keep up the steady updates, I’m curious what you think Agent Florida would want to try.” CT left, though none of them were foolish enough to believe she was gone.

“York?” Said Tom.

“It would have to be.” Agrees Radha.

“No, Carolina,” says Kris.

“What?” They both look at Kris, still on the floor rubbing their head.

“I swear it’s Carolina’s. But she first wore it right after her birthday, so he probably…”

“Would even York get her an _I <3 NY_ shirt for _her_ birthday?” Asks Tom while Radha adds the shirt CT was wearing to the database with her pad.

“Got brass ones to match his armor, I swear.” Kris turns back to the hatch. “You’d have to, to focus on a lock while you’re sitting at the enemy’s front door.”

Radha hums speculatively. “Hey, d’you think he’s got--”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Even better abs than North, though,” says Tom.

“When’ve you seen North shirtless?” Radha asks. “He usually humors Washington.”

“Yes, but if Washington’s ever gone on a mission that’s supposed to take two or more days, and North’s still here, he joins right in with York.”

“Ohhh.”

“Someday Agent Connecticut’s going to get bored of watching us gossip and tell them all,” Kris warns, dour.

“Tell them what?” Tom shoots back.

“The betting pool? The spreadsheets? The fanfic? The surveillance footage? Take your pick.”

“But the betting pool’s defunct since we found out about the lounge,” Radha protests.

“Yeah? Maybe she’ll start with that and escalate, then.” Radha and Tom both shudder. CT is indeed a capricious and merciless god. 

***

The whole thing had started when Parker from the Bridge Crew woke up in medical with a broken nose and a story of coming face to boobs with South’s sports bra as she pulled on a shirt while walking out of the Freelancers’ lounge. General consensus was that the broken nose would’ve been a fair trade, if he actually liked boobs (several crewmembers loudly volunteered for fate’s next victim).

When someone in security claimed that he had security tapes from that day that would prove the shirt had actually been Wyoming’s, a few people were very, very happy, and about to collect on their bets until someone reported that Wyoming had been seen the same day in a shirt that was almost definitely York’s-- and so the spreadsheet was started. A shared labor of love (or rather, lust), they began actually correlating their data on which shirts were whose and who had been seen wearing them then.

That was how they discovered the single most critical variable: the lounge. Once they noticed the trend, pinpointing the locus of the bewildering tendency to appear in a different shirt halfway through their rest days, someone got access to the hall cameras outside the Freelancers’ lounge for a whole four days before CT cut them off.

The recordings of every different Freelancer except Maine and Washington (who were never seen out of full armor) never coming out with the same shirt they wore going in… well. The argument is still going on whether those whose bets were on “all of them” should get to cash in when it’s unclear whether Maine and Wash undress at all. Or whether everyone with a bet that didn’t involve the two armor-dwellers has technically won.

When did the bets about the Freelancers’ sex lives start? Oh, the day they set foot on the ship, of course.

***

“So,” asks 479er. “You ever going to tell them we’re not allowed to have orgies in the lounge?”

“No, I’m not that cruel. They don’t want to know.” CT’s got her helmet off, leaning against the wall of the hangar beside the pilot.

“Based on the Dakota problem?”

“No, they’ve acknowledged the Dakota problem, and are split between erotic incest and superpowers of ignoring shit developed over decades of codependency. If they were really interested in accuracy, they’d acknowledge that we always come out wearing the same pants.”

“They haven’t?”

“Well, there is _one_ fanfic that posits the pants have to fit right in case of emergency combat, but most of the comments say the pants are too similar to gather data, anyway.”

“Really? Even with the Dakotas’ legs?”

“I’m picturing Maine trying to wear my sweats, but the amount of times I’d have to roll up North’s to stand without tripping…” CT snorts. “No, _their_ collective superpower of ignoring shit is too precious to destroy.”

“Let me guess,” 479er chuckles. “You wrote that one fanfic.”

“Maybe. You can’t prove anything.”

“You'd make one hell of a supervillain, CT. Hey! Dumbass!” 479er yells loud enough to be heard across the entire hanger. “If you move that one inch closer to my baby, I’ll cut that inch off your dick!” 479er claps a hand on CT’s shoulder in farewell as she moves off across the hanger, not noticing how the agent’s smile goes bitter.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just an excuse to expound on my Freelancers' Lounge headcanon. And post SOMETHING while The Other Thing gets longer and longer and longer...


End file.
